I just finished writing two books at the same time. Taking Berlin and another untitled Killing book overlapped for a couple months, making for double writing sessions (morning and afternoon, a departure from my usual morning-only strategy) seven days a week. The motivation was to hit the deadlines but the caveat was that the quality couldn't suffer. By the time both books were delivered a few months ago, I thought my head would explode.
In a strange way, metaphorically speaking, it did.
A few weeks back my office flooded. I walked in barefoot one Sunday morning and the carpet was a puddle. I blamed Sadie, our young Lab, at first. But after trying to soak up the liquid with numerous bath towels it became clear that the size of the puddle was only increasing.
Sadie was not the culprit.
If you have ever had a flood you know what comes next: plumbers, restoration companies, insurance claims. The entire contents of my office were removed by a company specializing in such things, then stored in a large metal container that now takes up an enormous amount of space on my driveway. Only yesterday, some miscreant from my homeowners association was observed stopping his car to take photos of the beast. A stern letter is surely forthcoming.
Now, let me tell you about my office. After attempts to set up shop inside our house when the boys were still young, it became clear that a simple spare bedroom would not do the trick, so I cleared out a corner of the garage, built myself a small desk, found a small office chair, and began writing.
That was 1999.
Twenty-three years and just as many books later, my little corner of the garage was transformed. A contractor framed up walls, built shelves, put down carpet, added air condition, heat, and canned lighting. I painted the walls yellow because it is said to inspire creativity — and I believe that is true. A world map takes up two walls, bookshelves a third, and my favorite framed photos another. A vinyl and turntable fills one corner. My desk — a gorgeous piece of wood purchased from one of those places that make exceptional overpriced furniture — faces the door. There is no window. It is a room that was once featured on 60 Minutes. It is my stronghold when the words are flowing and when they are not. Every now and then I celebrated the end of a good writing day with a cold beer and some very loud Springsteen. More often, I just closed my laptop and turned out the lights, ready to rejoin the world after six hours of sensory deprivation and hyper-focus.
But it's gone for now. I am rebuilding, of course. In a few years I'll forget this speed bump. But for now my laptop and accouterments are inside, spread out on the dining room table. I edited Taking Berlin in the shade of the back porch, taking care to use a heavy rock as paperweight so the pages didn't blow away — although many times I forgot, and away they flew.
I'm a thinker but not a philosopher. I don't need a mountain top, just a quiet place to close the door and let my mind go walkabout. But it seems that my thoughts have sharpened by not having that place to close the door. I've been thrown out of my normal routine, forcing me to recalibrate my hopes and dreams, if only because not having a place to hide feels very much like starting over.
I prayed for this. Not for a flood, nor the destruction of my precious space. But for a creative rebirth that will make the next few decades of my career the best ever. I normally take a break between books but this one's not coming to an end anytime soon. I'm researching my next book in a slow and patient fashion, which is very new to a guy who sometimes writes three books a year. Feels calming. Makes me want to spread my wings.
There is a small part of me that doesn't want my office back.